vaulting onto his horse. But not today, encumbered as he was with full armor. No cataphract in full armor could climb a horse without a stool or a helping hand.
Once he was firmly in the saddle, Belisarius heaved a little sigh of relief. For the hundredth time, he patted himself on the back for his good sense in having all of his Thracian cavalry equipped with Scythian saddles instead of the flimsy Roman ones. Roman “saddles” were not much more than a thin pad. Scythian saddles were solid leather, and-much more to the point-had a cantle and a pommel. With a Scythian saddle, an armored cavalryman had at least half a chance of staying on his horse through a battle.
Belisarius heard noises behind him. Turning, he saw two of his cataphracts coming down the hill at a fast trot. As fast a “trot,” at least, as could be managed by men wearing: full suits of scale-mail armor-including chest cuirasses-covering their upper bodies, right arms, and their abdomens down to mid-thigh; open-faced iron helmets with side-flanges, of the German spangenhelm style favored by most of the Thracians; small round shields buckled to their upper left arms, leaving the left hand free to wield a bow; heavy quilted Persian-style cavalry trousers; and, of course, a full panoply of weapons. The weapons included a long lance, a powerful compound bow, a quiver of arrows, long Persian-style cavalry swords, daggers, and the special personal weapons of the individuals: in the case of one, a mace; in the case of the other, a spatha.
Belisarius recognized the approaching cataphracts, recognized their purpose, and began to frown fiercely. But when the two cataphracts neared, his words of hot reproach were cut off before he could utter them.
“Don’t bother, General,” said Valentinian.
“No use at all,” agreed Anastasius.
“Direct orders from Maurice.”
“Very direct.”
“You’re just the general.”
“Maurice is the Maurice.”
Belisarius grimaced. There was no point in trying to send Valentinian and Anastasius away. They wouldn’t obey his order, and he could hardly enforce it on them personally, since He eyed the two men.
Since I don’t think there are two tougher soldiers in the whole Roman army, that’s why.
So he tried reason.
“I don’t need bodyguards.”
“Hell you don’t,” came Valentinian’s sharp, nasal reply.
“Was ever a man needed a bodyguard, it’s you,” added Anastasius. As ever, the giant’s voice sounded like rumbling thunder. Professional church bassos had been known to turn green with envy, hearing that voice.
Menander was already bringing up the two cataphracts’ horses. Anastasius’ mount was the largest charger anyone had ever seen. Anastasius was devoted to the beast, as much out of genuine affection as simple self- preservation. No smaller horse could have borne his weight, in full armor, in the fury of a battlefield. Especially encumbered as the horse was with its own armor: scale mail covering the top of its head and its neck down to the withers, with additional sheets of mail protecting its chest and its front shoulders.
Anastasius more or less tossed Valentinian onto his horse. Then he mounted his own, with Menander’s help. By the time he was aboard, the young cataphract looked completely exhausted by the effort of hoisting him.
Belisarius rode off, heading toward the center of the Roman lines. Behind him, he heard his two companions expressing their thoughts on the day.
“Look at it this way, Valentinian: it beats fighting on foot.”
“It certainly does not.”
“You hate to walk, even, much less-”
“So what? Not so bad, butchering a bunch of Medes trying to scramble their horses up that godawful hill. Instead-”
“Maybe he’ll-”
“You know damn well he won’t. When has he ever?”
Heavy sigh, like a small rockslide.
Again, Valentinian: “Huh? When has he ever? Name one time! Just one!”
Heavy sigh.
Mutter, mutter, mutter.
“What was that last, Valentinian?” asked Belisarius mildly. “I didn’t quite make it out.”
Silence.
Anastasius: “Sounded like ’fuck bold commanders, anyway.’ ”
Hiss.
Anastasius: “But maybe not. Maybe the bad-tempered skinny cutthroat said: ’Fuck old commoners, anyway.’ Stupid thing to say, under the circumstances, of course. Especially since he’s a commoner himself. But maybe that’s what he said. He’s bad-tempered about everything, you know.”
Hiss.
Belisarius never turned his head. Just smiled. Crookedly, at first, then broadly.
Well, maybe Maurice is right. God help the Mede who tries to get in my way, that’s for sure.
Once he reached the fortified camp at the center of the Roman lines, Belisarius dismounted and entered through the small western gate. Valentinian and Anastasius chose to remain outside. It was too much trouble to dismount and remount, and there was no way to ride a horse into that camp.
The camp was nothing special, in itself. It had been hastily erected in one day, and consisted of nothing much more than a ditch backed up by an earthen wall. Normally, such a wall would have been corduroyed, but there were precious few logs to be found in that region. To some degree, the soldiers had been able to reinforce the wall with field stones. Where possible, they had placed the customary cervi — branches projecting sideways from the wall- but there were few suitable branches to be found in that barren Syrian terrain. Some of the more far-sighted and enterprising units had brought sharpened stakes with them to serve the purpose, but the wall remained a rather feeble obstacle. A pitiful wall, actually, by the traditional standards of Roman field fortifications.
But Belisarius was not unhappy with the wall. Not, not in the slightest. Quite the contrary. He wanted the Persian scouts to report to Firuz that the Roman fortification at the center of their lines was a ramshackle travesty.
The real oddity about the camp was not the camp itself but its population density-and the peculiar position of its inhabitants. Some Roman infantrymen were standing on guard behind the wall, as one might expect. The great majority, however, were lying down behind the wall and in the shallow trenches which had been dug inside the camp. The camp held at least four times as many soldiers as it would appear to hold, looking at it from the Persian side.
Belisarius heard the cornicens blaring out a ragged tune. Very ragged, just as he had instructed. As if the men blowing those horns were half-deranged with fear. The soldiers standing visible guard began acting out their parts.
As Belisarius watched, the infantry chiliarch of the Army of Lebanon trotted up. Hermogenes was grinning from ear to ear.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Belisarius smiled. “Well, they’re certainly throwing themselves into their roles. Although I’m not sure it’s really necessary for so many of them to be tearing at their hair. Or howling quite so loud. Or shaking their knees and gibbering.”
Hermogenes’ grin never faded.
“Better too much than too little.” He turned and admired the thespian display. By now, the soldiers at the wall were racing around madly, in apparent confusion and disorder.
“Don’t overdo it, Hermogenes,” said Belisarius. “The men might get a little too far into it and forget it’s just an act.”
The chiliarch shook his head firmly.
“Not a chance. They’re actually quite enthusiastic about the coming battle.”
Belisarius eyed him skeptically.
“It’s true, General. Well-maybe ’enthusiastic’ is putting it a little too strongly. Confident, let’s say.”
Belisarius scratched his chin. “You think? I’d have thought the men would be skeptical of such a tricky little scheme.”
